Regaining Confidence
by nefret24
Summary: Post "Point Break." Mozzie recovers from the shooting, with a little help from his friends. Gen-fic, written before the 1/18/11 premiere. Contains some small spoilers. Please R/R.


Title: **Regaining Confidence**

Author: Nefret24

Category: Mozzie-centric one-shot; genfic with a sprinkling of Peter/Neal and Neal/Mozzie bromance, and Mozzie/Ellie friendship.

Summary: Set after the events of "Point Blank." Mozzie recovers from the shooting.

Author's Note: Written before the January premiere so apologies if it does not jive with the show's reality. Though, warning: this story does include some small spoilers that have been circulating on the 'net, so be forewarned.

* * *

_"Confidence, once lost or betrayed, can never be restored again to the same measure; and we learn late in life that our acts of deception are irrevocable – they may be forgiven, but they cannot be forgotten by their victims." ~ Sydney J. Harris_

_

* * *

_

Dying didn't quite feel like he had supposed it would. The shock, Mozzie supposed, had something to do with that. He was always very prepared, everyday, for the worst to happen; those last moments of consciousness were free of regrets regarding the state of his affairs or his underwear.

Not free of regrets entirely, however. And the shocking pain of that realization was almost worse than the burning in his chest before he promptly passed out.

* * *

Neal received a text from an unknown number shortly after the police had cleared the scene at the pawn shop. At seeing his face drain of color, Peter pried himself away from the CSU tech and came immediately to his side.

"What?"

Neal clamped his lips tight and redialed. "Hi, this is Neal Caffrey - who am I speaking to? Right. Uh-huh. What happened? Gunshot wound. Is he… is he stable? Yeah. Yeah, okay. Thanks. What? Yeah, that's… thanks. Bye."

Peter watched the whole exchange with a heart thudding in his chest. Neal had been trying to get his quirky friend to answer his phone for a solid hour with no success and Peter had no consolation for him. From the professional marks of the hit, he didn't have hopes that their involvement wouldn't have been noticed. "Havisham?"

"Yeah," Neal managed, his voice cracking. "Apparently he's in the hospital. Found him on a street corner with a gunshot wound to the chest. They're operating now. Prognosis is… unsure."

"Who was that on the phone?"

"Some helpful nurse paid off to ensure… let's just call it a security protocol." Peter rolled his eyes eloquently, still intent. Neal filled in his unasked question. "Wouldn't give a name. Apparently… he's a fan of my work."

"You have _fans_? Great. And I thought the day couldn't get worse. Hospital?" Peter asked, starting for the door at a brisk trot.

"Presbyterian," Neal added, keeping up with Peter's long strides.

"In the car, now. We're using the gumball."

"I'm sure he would be flattered."

"Let's hope he lives to hear the tale."

* * *

Sixty-nine year old Betty Wilkins was the one who found him, slumped over and half falling off the slab seat at the bus stop. She didn't care for those new fangled cell phones, because she had always thought that one of the best bits of being outside was being away from the phone. (She had worked for years behind a receptionist's desk, so it's possible she was biased.)

According to her husband, children, and her older grandchildren, Betty could be a force to be reckoned with. So it was no surprise that upon finding the man she not only began to put pressure on the wound, but stared down a passerby into calling 911.

She was detained by the nice officers who had first come on the scene, and even though she was retired, she did have errands to run. She told them as much, loudly and often, and thus when Peter appeared in front of her to ask the same series of questions, she was a little less than civil.

"It was a very fine thing to do, Mrs. Wilkins," Peter said again, flinching only slightly under the woman's penetrating stare.

"Yes, you've said that. You government types are repetitious, you know that? More waste from Washington," she said with a cluck of her tongue.

Neal of course took this moment to appear in the hospital waiting room. "Unfortunate but true," he said with a jaunty smile.

"You another one of these so-called _special_ agents?" she asked, fixing her eye on Neal.

"Oh no, ma'am. I'm just a friend of the man who was shot. You are a true heroine, if I may say…"

"Honey, with those eyes, you may say whatever you like. You aren't single, are you? I only ask because I have a very nice granddaughter about your age…"

"Mrs. Wilkins, if you could just finish giving me your contact information…" Peter interjected, with a grateful look from Neal who was in process of making a quick escape.

When he was done, Peter rejoined Neal in a pair of uncomfortable waiting room chairs. "Hell of a lady, that Mrs. Wilkins."

"Yeah. You seemed a little scared of her."

"Says the man who ran away in the opposite direction so fast he left track marks in the floor."

"_You_ want to date her granddaughter?"

"I'm sure El would have something to say about that."

"She could of made me do it too," Neal said with a shudder. "She's…"

"_Very_ formidable, I'm aware." Peter waited a beat, looked out the 13th floor window without really seeing anything, and exhaled slowly. "He was lucky it was her."

When the surgeon pronounced that Mr. Casaubon was going to live, both men breathed sighs of relief. After retreating, Peter turned a quizzical eye on Neal.

"Casaubon, huh? That one of his aliases?"

"Complete with health insurance," Neal confirmed with a nod.

"That's… insane. How many of those… You know what? I don't want to know. I am better off not knowing," Peter muttered, mostly to himself. "Still insane."

"He's thorough to a freakish degree, yeah," Neal said, lips beginning to curve into a grin. "So if anyone asks, he's a server-side tech for a commercial real estate company in Midtown."

"Of course. He's that paranoid?"

"You have to ask?"

"_Right._ Does this Mr. Casaubon have family?"

"Divorced, no kids. Wife got the dog in the separation – he's still bitter about that."

"Let me guess – Spot?"

"Buffy. Wife was a fan of Joss Whedon." Neal's grin was full-fledged now.

"In-sane," Peter pronounced very deliberately, but he couldn't help mirroring Neal's grin of relief.

* * *

When he woke up in a sea of institutional taupe, Mozzie considered possibly rethinking his atheist beliefs. Clearly someone, somewhere had been looking out for him and he wasn't willing to rule out celestial candidates.

Neal and Peter weren't far from his bedside after he woke up; he was vaguely aware that Ellie had visited at one point, but the pain medications make him very sleepy. He would have asked the nurses to shut the morphine off so that his mind wasn't so clouded but he really wasn't strong enough to endure that level of pain nor did he have any aspirations towards martyrdom.

He wasn't sure for how long it lasted, but after the first day of drifting in and out of consciousness, he nosed onto the fact that he was given a Bureau issued bodyguard, which pissed him off a great deal.

Mozzie supposed upon later reflection that he really was conflicted about that as well; he'd taken the one and only bullet he'd care to for his entire life a few days ago, and it was only right and just that someone else be put in charge of safety protocols for the time being.

On the other hand, it was just another form of survelliance. Coming on the heels of the indignity of being confined to a hospital bed, with shifts of rotating nurses knowing his vitals, the state of his catheter bag, and where the mole was on his hip, he was becoming very annoyed with losing his hard-won mystique.

Neal visited. It might have been everyday; it could have been just one long day; he really couldn't tell with the world coated in a haze of analgesics. But when he recognized his friend at his bedside, it was very hard to look him in the eyes.

He could tell that Neal wanted to ask about the music box, the code, and always seemed to stop himself short. Then again, Mozzie made sure that his opportunities of bringing up the issue were few and far between.

So this unspoken thing hovering between them grew, but Neal's visits did not stop. Mozzie's cover story of the drugs had an expiration date, and when he was conscious, he was becoming increasingly worried. No matter how hard he tried to phrase it, he just couldn't seem to find a way to say the painful things Neal needed to hear.

_I lost the notebook with your best lead on the music box._

_I have made a reputation on perfect recall, and I can't remember a damn thing about that code. _

_I called the FBI on you. I abused your trust and called the suit, and what was worse, I truly thought I was doing the right thing. _

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, __**I'm sorry**__._

* * *

When Ellie visited him again, he finally was able to sit up in a wheelchair with some semblance of dignity.

She smuggled him in a decent cup of coffee from the deli where Gina used to work, which he sipped while sharing his conspiracy theories about hospitals with her (bacteria and super bug breeding grounds, bureaucratical nightmares, and don't even get him started on health insurance policies).

She chuckled good-naturedly, and regaled him with the story about how Mrs. Wilkins had terrified both Neal and Peter. She wasn't foolish enough not to notice that he had become uncomfortable at the mention of Neal's name.

"Moz? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure. Pain meds are wearing off, that's all," he grunted, not looking her in the eyes and shifting ever so slightly in his wheelchair.

"Mozzie," she said quietly, resting her hand on his. "What's going on with you and Neal?"

"Nothing. Nothing's going on." He shouldn't have said that so fast; he blamed the morphine for stealing his natural talents at deception.

"Oh, please. Neal's been wearing a hang-dog look for days. I half expect to see him rubbing his hands and shouting "Out, out, damned spot!" any day now."

"The Lady Macbeth routine?" he asked, confused.

"He's very sorry, you know."

Mozzie looked into Ellie's face and saw her sincerity and bit back on a nervous laugh. He should have known. Maybe if his head were clearer, maybe if he didn't have his own reasons for avoiding that conversation…

When he finally spoke again, speech came slowly, each word weighed down with consideration. "You are telling me that Neal holds himself responsible for …" he gestured at his chest, bruised and torn and covered in bandages still.

"Yes," she said softly, unshed tears in her eyes. "The other man, the one who was working on it with you…"

"Tanaka? He's –" Mozzie gulped audibly, processing this new information.

"Yes. Hence the wringing of hands and the like."

After another long pause, he made a fussy gesture of thoroughly cleaning his glasses on his robe, and then genuinely smiled at her. "Gee, you miss a hell of a lot when you're conscious for only a few hours a day. Remind me again never to get shot."

"I doubt you'll need the reminder," she rejoined drily. "But you'll talk to Neal? Please?" she asked with a light squeeze of his hand.

"Yes, I will," he promised, squeezing her hand back. "Now. I believe there is a lot of news I have to catch up on. How did the Red Ball turn out and did the canapés last the entire cocktail hour?"

* * *

When Mozzie finally asked for details regarding his shooting, he could tell that Neal was immensely relieved. Finally discussing things out in the open was distinctly uncomfortable, but there had been tacit agreement between the two men that they would make a concerted effort to move on.

He apologized, and so did Neal, though neither man really thought the other's was more necessary than their own.

It was funny, he supposed, considering that his relationship to Neal was very likely the closest thing to true friendship that he'd ever experienced. And that, of course, was supremely messed up given that they only recently decided to trust one another, and then, not even entirely.

This music box thing, and getting shot, well, that was a bit of a game changer. Mozzie wasn't sure how this would change things, but he was certain things would change regardless.

* * *

He tried to pay attention to the team's progress in the investigation, but his time began to be monopolized by Nurse Irene, who made Nurse Ratched look like an angel and insisted on beginning his rehabilitation process.

She stifled all his attempts to smuggle in a laptop and decent food; she hounded his every other step with disgusting hospital meals and trips to the bathroom and mandatory strolls up and down the blue and gray hallway; she tried to make small talk about his fake real estate firm; she was untouchable by all the higher-ups he petitioned to get her removed to another patient. In other words, she was a remarkably relentless thorn in his side.

He wasn't sure how he was going to do it, but somehow he would get payback. Depending on exactly how vicious she had been that day in rehab, he would vary the solutions between getting her fired, conning her out of a few paychecks or putting out a contract for her severed head.

When Peter next visited him, he was contemplating a rolodex of hitmen in his head for his erstwhile scrub-wearing tormentor.

So it was that he realized belatedly that Peter was less than his chipper self, and not dressed in the required g-man suit.

"What gives? Shouldn't you be out seeking justice for my bullet-ridden body?" he asked indignantly.

"My badge has been suspended pending further investigation. It's complicated – this Larson character definitely has friends in some very high - and very low - places," Peter said grimly.

"And you're just sitting back and letting him get away-"

"Hey, no one's letting anybody get away with this. Neal… might be working an angle that … let's just say I need a rock-hard alibi for the next hour or so." He shared a bright conspiratorial smile with Mozzie.

"Well, then. I need more ice chips," Mozzie requested with a regal flick of his hand.

"Oh, goodie."

* * *

Neal's next visit certainly was an interesting one. Apparently, Mozzie's paranoia had managed to reach new levels now that the drugs were leveling off. They met in a common area, in the one blind spot of the "cameras and microphones, so that Nemesis Nurse can't hear."

Neal took in the accounts of Mozzie's struggle with Nurse Irene with a rather bemused smile on his face. "Managed two bites of the hamburger before the villianess swooped in to tear it out of my lily-white hands. I swear the survelliance feed in that room is more sophisticated than what the suit is working with. And if that weren't enough, then I was treated to a lengthy lecture about my _cholesterol_."

"And here I thought your body was a temple."

"You flatter me - I'm not that good a Buddhist. As evidenced by my burning desire to see this terrorist taken down."

"She's hardly a terrorist-"

"_Emotional_ terrorist."

"- she's just frighteningly efficient."

"I think I need to organize the other patients on the floor," he muttered, completely ignoring Neal.

"A revolution? Good luck with that one, William Wallace."

"It could work. Or, I was thinking about this last night, maybe you could get Peter to get that bodyguard of mine back here."

"Why? I thought you hated having one stationed here."

"Ye-es, but it might be a necessary evil. _It is better to be feared than loved, _you know_._ If she thought that I was a member of an international crime ring..."

"...She might back off for fear of her life? You really need to find a laptop or something to occupy your time, buddy. I think the enforced bed rest is rotting your brain."

"I tried. _Twice_. And have a new plan in motion. She's a very wily, Neal. Wily, and ruthless, and -"

"Okay, okay: say you do succeed. What then?"

"We will upgrade to decent chocolate pudding instead of drowning in a sea of gelatin, for starters."

"What a platform. _Down with Jello!_ Way to sway the floor patients to your cause."

Neal supposed it gave him something to do, to create a villian he could deal with instead of the very real one out that he could not.

The confidence business was one that might be treated like a game, but was deadly serious. One tended to forget the consequences every now and again; it was easy to when one has a healthy enough ego and believes one will always win. Being the victim was not something they prepared for - and didn't have coping skills for. He found himself agreeing to assist if the latest laptop scheme failed before he left.

* * *

When he finally did manage to get the laptop past Nazi Nurse Irene, he began to lay the groundwork for a plan that had been stewing in his head for over a week.

It was a remarkably easy job to do; the hardest part of the whole affair was reassembling the laptop after he extracted it from the laundry bag it came in. Hijacking the waiting room wi-fi was child's play, and hacking the travel agency's website was less than that, what with a back door the size of Texas.

When Peter asked him several days later if he knew anything about Mrs. Wilkins conveniently winning an all-expense paid cruise of the Caribbean, Mozzie's only response was a blank stare.

* * *

When Peter saw Neal in the FBI offices later that day, he remarked upon his visit with Mozzie.

"Denied it, of course," Peter said, watching Neal's face carefully. It was curiously void of expression, which just reaffirmed all Peter's suspicions.

"I don't know how he could have possibly managed it; he has the strictest nurse on the ward," he continued, shuffling the paperwork that had accumulated on his desk with his suspension into more orderly piles.

"Yes, I might have heard something about her—Satan, I think, might be her nickname," Neal affirmed with a nod. "Affectionately meant, I'm sure."

"She's already caught him trying to sneak in a laptop twice."

"Third time's a charm," Neal said with an unapologetic grin.

Peter looked up from the desk, and sighed. "This is going to take forever to get through," he grumbled with a slap of file folders.

"I'll just leave you to it then," Neal said, eager to leave before he could get roped into paper pushing.

As he made his way out the door, he only just heard as Peter commented, "It's nice to know he's back to his old self."

Yes, Neal thought to himself as he descended the steps from the second floor to the bullpen, it was. Can't keep a good con down.

FIN.

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